


Elderberry

by OhNovi



Category: A Wise Man's Fear, Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss, the name of the wind
Genre: Bast sings Kvothe a song, Complete, Fluff, Kissing, Laying in a meadow, M/M, One Shot, Singing, Stealing wine from the bar, Sweet Bast is Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 06:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11030325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNovi/pseuds/OhNovi
Summary: Kvothe closes early to meet with Bast at the beginning of twilight.





	Elderberry

**Author's Note:**

> To you, who always inspires and provides endless support when I prattle.

It was early when Kvothe clicked the lock closed to the Waystone Inn. The sun still shone, clinging to the sky with reluctance as it drifted downward to the horizon. The old worn door was tinted pink with the light of it and the innkeeper brushed his fingers over the colour thoughtfully. This was the first time in a long while that he’d closed the Inn from outside, and without the glittering light of a fire inside the building looked haunted and dull. It was beautiful, in its way, but with this sunset light, it felt like the building was closing its eyes and sighing towards a long and final sleep. He twisted and pulled the key free, tucking it into a pocket. 

In the final glow, Kvothe began to walk.

The road was quiet and empty tonight. The townsfolk were busy with preparations of their own, tired and worn from working the fields, and reluctant to spend their coin with rumours of taxes rising yet again. They wouldn’t notice, and if they did it was easy to make honest enough excuses. 

It had been a warm, clear day. Enough to see Bast out for most of it, pausing only briefly to steal two bottles of wine before he left, when he thought Kvothe hadn’t been watching. But he was always watching. And he saw the strain behind his student’s eyes when he had fled in the morning. He had tasted the lilt of a lie on his tongue when he spoke of a farmers daughter, and the expression his Faen face crumpled into when staring at the innkeepers back. 

Kvothe’s lips turned down in a grimace. It wasn’t remorse he felt. It was fresher than that, lacking the rooted grip of regret. It was quiet and persistent and fluttering. The gentle anxiety of knowing you’re walking towards a mistake, but have no way of stopping yourself.

It was nearly twilight when he left the road. With sure footing, Kvothe crossed through a cluster of young trees and into a wide unturned pasture of green grass and stray barley shoots. It was a field of a family whose horse had gone lame two years back. The space had been left untouched, and without care, it had gone wild with flowers. It was a good patch of land, wide and flat. Unblemished by all but a huge elm that stood at the centre. The field was half cast in shadow. The pink of the sky had deepened to a luminous purple that tinted all that it touched. The moon begun to rise over the large tree and stars sparkled out faintly beside it. Like a fine fabric it reflected the final glimmer of sun. Kvothe’s face cooled with the absence of light, the gentle breeze brushed through his coppery hair. The evening held the scent of cloves and elderberry and the gentle whisper of a tune being sung close by. 

Turn through the willow.  
Down to the meadow.  
Over the hill.  
Where is my fellow?

Bast sang with a sighing tenor, head tilted up to the moon and his face as flush as could be. His lips were stained the colour of dark wine and he swayed in the tall grass as if to become part of the growth. 

Follow the Waystone  
Field of new flowers  
Green is the grass  
Waiting for hours

His hair kissed by flame.  
And pretty of face.  
Saved him a seat.  
In this secret place.

Bast patted the spot next to him, occupied only by a tipped wine bottle with a stained cork pressed into the mouth. Without a word Kvothe sat, taking up the bottle and swishing it. It purled, which satisfied him enough. He pulled the stopper and drank. Feeling the embrace of darkness cling ever tighter to the purpling twilight. The fae hummed for some time after his song was spent, words long since gone and replaced with a repeating tune that Kvothe felt nestle itself deep in the back of his mind. Four chords in the progression, two stanzas, and a repeat. It was melodic and sweet and easy to remember. He absently wondered if Bast had made it up, or just borrowed the tune from another song. It held the easy familiarity of faen music. 

In his mind he played with it, switching to minor and hearing the longing in the song. The longing all minor music held. A deep and compelling sadness. His fingers moved absently over the cool green bottle, pressing out the notes as he drifted in thought. He barely noticed when the prince stilled to watch him. 

It was Kvothe’s voice now that hummed. It was quiet. Tremulous. And to Bast; it was beautiful.

He watched his pale face. He watched the creep of blood colour his Reshi’s skin as the alcohol sank in, and he watched his lips; pale and pressed together in an impassive line, moving slightly with inaudible words that hid in the humming of the silvery sad tune. It was like his own song, but deeper. It was melancholy and slow, with a few notes added to fill out the tune from a simple rhyme to a true melody. It filled him and wrung his heart. It warmed his throat and stung his eyes. He felt as though he could steal the song from Kvothe’s mouth and devour it, taking it into himself and suffocating the grief it gave. If he just leant forwards he could reach. If he just took the sadness from the inn keeper’s lips it would leave, and Reshi could smile again. If he just.

Their lips touched. 

The song hushed to a sigh and the two drew close. Fingers wrapped through the tangles of Bast’s dark hair and pulled him with an earnest silence. The bottle rolled into the grass, and the Fae lay the innkeeper down beside it. The reeds bent low beneath them, creating a soft nest. His Reshi would be safe here. Protected by tall walls of flax and flower. The mourning song quieted by a shy kiss but drawn out like a poison with the second. Something long and deep and desperate.

In the tall grass they lay, and the darkness crept in the way darkness always does. But tonight they had each other, and a song, and the taste of elderberry between them.


End file.
